


Balancing on a Blade

by Anya509



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Anxiety, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 07:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anya509/pseuds/Anya509
Summary: Andrew hates hospitals.





	Balancing on a Blade

**Author's Note:**

> TW: References to canon and non-canon events from Andrew's past.

Andrew hates hospitals.

Hates the cloying smell of antiseptic, the sickness, the goddamned hospital food. He hates the steady beep, beep, beep of machinery, the shrill of alarms, the ever-present murmurs of nurses and doctors and janitors. He really hates the visitors, with their desperation and fear. It twists their faces into jagged masks of hopelessness, and it twists Andrew with memories of his own face. A much younger face, but still his own. He hates hospitals.

It’s highly unfortunate, therefore, that he is currently in one. 

They won the game easily. Though he’d never admit it out loud, Andrew had put in a little extra effort that night. Because he hated seeing Neil moping around. Definitely not because he wanted to see Neil happy. 

The fight had started out of nowhere during the post-game “let’s shake each other’s hands and pretend we don’t want to maim each other” ritual. A few choice words from their new, stupid recruit – Jake, was it? – and punches were thrown. Andrew had promptly yanked Kevin back, clutched Neil’s jersey to do the same, and the world exploded in pain. An elbow, he’d realized belatedly, staring up at the ceiling. At Neil’s obnoxious auburn hair, sweat-plastered to his forehead, leaning over him with a horrified expression. 

Most people don’t have particularly good memories about hospitals. Andrew has particularly bad memories. First was – well, that’s not true. First would have to be being born to Tilda. Even if Andrew doesn't remember, it still counts as bad. The first actual memory hardly improves on that. Andrew had been six and his foster mom had broken his arm. The staff had eyed Andrew worriedly while they worked on him, concerned for his lack of crying, his heartbreakingly mature understanding that even if he did cry, no one would care. 

Andrew got an infection when he was twelve. He held off as long as possible, hiding the shivers, wiping the sweat from his face, forcing himself through sheer iron-willed stubbornness to not shuffle constantly at the persistent burning and itching. In the end, his home-room teacher noticed something was wrong and sent Andrew to the school nurse. The thermometer was barely out of his mouth when the nurse calmly told him they’d be taking a trip to the hospital. There were lots of uncomfortable questions, uncomfortable looks, and even more uncomfortable exams. Someone assured him he’d be safe at his next foster home. Andrew met his new foster mom two weeks later – a lovely, smiling woman by the name of Cass Spears. 

And then two years ago. Andrew remembered it all – he remembered everything – but he’d been caught in a foggy state of shock and drugs. Everything had seemed just a little removed. The intrusive questions, the pictures, the explanations. Even as strange hands removed his clothes, touched and poked and bandaged his bare skin, he’d watched everything from behind a veil of detached apathy. Nothing could touch him, because everything already had. 

There’s this stupid thing called healing. Andrew knows this because that why he’s been working with Bee over four years now. He also knows this because he quite literally shoved all of Neil’s stuffing back through his ripped seams and sewed them shut. They leak a fair bit, but he and Neil have gotten good at stitching themselves back up together. The unfortunate side effect of healing, in Andrew’s opinion, is when the inevitable fall happens, there’s so much further to fall. Even more than hospitals, Andrew really fucking hates heights. 

Andrew grits his teeth and digs his fingers into his palms as they cut away his clothes and maneuver his body into a scratchy, too-small gown. His head is pounding. Partially from the elbow that caught him squarely in the eye, more so from the resounding crack his skull made when he dropped heavily to the floor. The lights overhead are bright even with his eyes squeezed shut. Nausea swims in his gut – thinking about the nausea swimming in his gut just makes it worse. He throws up eventually, helped up by a nurse, settled back quickly as the room pitches sickeningly sideways. 

They ask him questions. Mostly basic stuff, though he clamps his jaw shut when they start discussing his medical history, specifically the last time he had a concussion. He wonders if they’ll leave him alone if he doesn’t answer anything else. They’re undeterred. Apparently, Andrew isn’t even their most difficult patient that day. 

They want to keep him overnight for observation. Andrew adamantly refuses. Signs their stupid “against medical advice” form. At least stay with someone that night, they urge him, have them keep an eye on you. Andrew scoffs (secretly, he knows he won’t even have to ask – Neil is likely staging a riot in the lobby as they speak). 

After the nurses leave him alone to change, Andrew allows himself a moment of miserable stillness. He lets the smells and sounds and memories flood him – but only for a moment. He opens his eyes. Or eye; by that point the other is swollen soundly shut. He’s considering the best way to put on his jeans without his head simply popping off his neck when there’s a soft knock on the door. 

“Can I come in?” Neil asks. 

Andrew stares at his jeans for a few more seconds. “Yes.”

Neil slips in quietly, sliding the door shut behind him and making sure the curtain remains drawn. His eyes immediately find Andrew’s and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and chews. 

“What do you need?” Not ‘how are you’, ‘I’m so sorry this happened’, or ‘I was so worried’. Neil and Andrew are both more pragmatic than that. Neil also knows his concern would be unwelcome, if voiced. His presence is concern enough. 

“Let me hang onto your shoulder,” Andrew says. He waits for an understanding nod from Neil, who steps forward. Andrew uses Neil as an anchor – literally, figuratively – as he slowly steps into his jeans. He has to bend to pull them up and everything tilts. He lets out a surprised breath, head and heart pounding, straightens up and tries to convince himself to try again. 

“Andrew. Yes or no?”

Andrew slides his gaze to Neil, who is holding him up more than before. Neil nods to Andrew’s jeans, still pooled around his calves. Andrew sighs, swallows. Nods. 

Even though it’s Neil’s cool hands tugging the fabric up and over his bare thighs and hips, Andrew feels the panic clawing at his chest. His mind is in overdrive. Too many memories, too many sensory reminders. Everything is too loud and too small and too much. He doesn’t realize he’s breathing quickly until a hand presses over his heart. 

“Hey,” Neil says sharply. “Andrew. Look at me. Look at me.”

“As if I’d want to,” Andrew snaps back. Only he does. He always does. He meets Neil’s intent gaze and glares back until his heartbeat starts to slow and his breathing softens. The hand pressed over his heart never loses pressure. It’s become an unwitting anchor for Andrew, much as his hand on the back on Neil’s neck is for him. Not so long-ago Andrew could barely tolerate a single touch to that part of his body – now it cuts through the fog like a knife. Only from Neil though. It will only ever be from Neil. 

Andrew manages to finish dressing himself without Neil’s help. A few minutes later, his nurse returns with discharge instructions and a clear plastic bag filled with prescription bottles. Neil notices the way Andrew eyes the bottles with distaste and neatly accepts them in his stead. 

Coach and Aaron are waiting for them in the lobby. Andrew has a lingering suspicion that Neil forbade anyone else from coming, or at least waiting. He doesn’t ask though, and Neil doesn’t offer. 

“Let me guess, you signed yourself out?” Coach says with a grimace, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You’re on a roll tonight, Coach,” Andrew answers. 

Coach mutters and Aaron barely conceals his snort. 

They drive back to campus in Coach’s truck. For once, Andrew relinquishes the front seat to his twin, opting to sit in the back with Neil. They don’t talk, but their hands are clasped together the whole way home. 

Getting back to the dorm takes more out of Andrew than he’d like to admit. By the time they leave a worried Aaron headed off to his own room, Andrew’s fingers are digging hard into Neil’s shoulder and all he can think about is his bed. 

Andrew would be normally loathe to crawl into bed without a shower – after a game, after the hospital. He hesitates at the edge of his bed, staring at it, considering how clean he could possibly get while lying down in the shower. Maybe he could just sleep in there. 

“You can burn them in the morning,” Neil suggests. 

“You can buy me new ones,” Andrew replies. 

“Sure.”

Andrew pauses. “127%.”

Neil raises an eyebrow. “That’s quite a jump.”

“You’re quite an idiot.”

“And you quite like it.”

“Shut up.”

Neil smiles. 

Changing sucks just as much as it did the first time, only the replacements for tight jeans and a sweaty t-shirt are soft sweats and a hoodie that smells distinctly of Neil. 

Neil cracks a window, letting a whisper of cool, night air inside, before settling down on the bed next to Andrew. Andrew is curled on his side, back pressed to the wall, watching him. He says nothing as Neil pulls the sheets and blankets up around their bodies, tucking them together in a cocoon of warmth and safety and only good memories. 

Andrew tugs Neil forward, not to kiss, just for closeness. With a quiet sigh, he rests his aching head against Neil’s, finds his perpetually cool hand beneath the blankets and presses it back over his heart. 

“I hate hospitals,” Andrew reiterates, his voice is barely a whisper in the darkness.

“I know,” Neil replies simply. Like he understands. He does understand. It’s annoying how much he understands. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Neil says a few minutes later. “Get some sleep. Things will be better tomorrow.”

Things have never been better after a trip to the hospital, not for Andrew. But for the first time in his life, he thinks maybe that won’t be true anymore. Thinks maybe Neil is right. 

He falls asleep softly with the smell of Neil in his nose and a feeling of warmth in his belly. 

(Things are better tomorrow)


End file.
